


Meme Fills

by nirejseki



Series: Meme Fills [2]
Category: Batman (Comics), DC's Legends of Tomorrow (TV), Daredevil (TV), Lucifer (TV), The Flash (TV 2014)
Genre: Crossovers & Fandom Fusions, Dirty Talk, Double Penetration, Explicit Sexual Content, Lingerie, M/M, Multi, assorted meme fills, hints of foot fetish
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-04-02
Updated: 2017-07-03
Packaged: 2018-10-14 01:15:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 15,994
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10525824
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nirejseki/pseuds/nirejseki
Summary: For all the meme fills (Legends of Flarrow Kink Meme, Mick-for-All for the Mick Rory Defense Squad, others) that are too short or otherwise don't need their own stories. Now also for tumblr fills that are too short for their own fic.6/8/2017 - Mick Rory hooks up with Mazikeen6/22/2017 - coldwave stress relief smut6/28/2017 - Mick Rory meets Frank Castle7/3/2017 - Len and Mick meet Wonder Woman





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Legends of Flarrow Kink Meme - prompt 99 - Coldflashwave. Mick and Barry tag team Len. Or dp.

“We just want you to feel welcome,” Barry says earnestly. 

“Know you didn’t have the easiest time of it, with the Legion,” Mick adds.

“Given that you were fighting basically everyone all at once,” Barry says.

“Partially my fault,” Mick notes. “The Legion being sucky for you. But in my defense, you were a dick when you were brainwashed.”

“So we thought – what would make Len happy?” Barry continues.

“We discounted the obvious,” Mick says. 

“Ice, cold gun, etc.” Barry agrees. “Too straightforward.”

“And I got to thinking,” Mick says. “What would Len have missed?”

“And he came to me and suggested that to help you recover in your post-brainwashing period, when you didn’t remember me at all, maybe I should be more thoroughly _involved_ in your recovery.”

“It’s very important to have familiar objects around during recovery,” Mick agrees. “My shrink’s told me so a million times.”

“So, really, it’s therapeutic, too. But in a good way!”

“Therapy for _everyone_ , really,” Mick says. “It’s both a gift _and_ group therapy.”

“Everyone’s been on me to go to therapy, actually. So you’re really helping me out here, too,” Barry says.

“All for the best,” Mick says. “See? Properly heroic-like of you, just the way you turned out in the original timeline.”

“Well, anti-heroic, really. Len’s always been ambiguous, even with the Legends.”

“Yeah, true.”

“You’re both _totally insane_ ,” Len says. “Untie me this instant.”

Barry pets his head. Len’s hair has grown out a bit, so it’s nice and fluffy, and the salt is thoroughly intermixed with the pepper.

He’s at just the right height to pet him, too, since Len is on his knees on the bed, naked, with hands bound behind him and legs bound apart.

“We gave you a safeword, boss,” Mick reminds him. “You want out, you can always use that.”

“Maybe I want you to come to your senses _regardless_.”

Mick and Barry exchange smirks.

That most definitely was _not_ the safeword they agreed on, and that meant fun time was on.

“I don’t think that’s what you want,” Barry says casually, letting his hands continue to caress Len’s head, slipping down to circle his temples, his cheeks, a swipe of a thumb across his plush lower lip, red as if he’d been biting them. “I think you want something else.”

“I agree with Scarlet here,” Mick says. “He’s got a point.”

“He does _not_. I want you to untie me and I want to get out of here. That’s all I want.”

Mick knows for a fact that Len can dislocate several joints if he wants to get out of rope bindings. He nods shallowly at Barry, who relaxes, the worried expression fleeing his face like it’s never been.

“I think we know a bit better than you what you want,” Barry says confidently. Len always did like him best when he was being all cocky. 

“There’s only one problem,” Mick says, reaching out and running his fingers down Len’s spine, watching his partner shiver a little at the ghost of sensation. “See, Barry here and I agreed to split you –”

Len snorts.

Mick smirks. He knows Leonard Snart better than anyone else, dead or alive, and if there was one thing the man can't resist, it's a godawful pun.

“– but we can’t really decide who gets what,” he continues after a moment’s pause. He’s running his hands along Len’s hips, now, thumbing at the indents made by Len’s hips. Squeezing just a little. Barry’s still stroking Len’s face; Len’s eyes are fixed on him, pupils dilated.

He’s been hard since he woke up in this position, so that much isn’t new. 

“At first, Barry here suggested that we split the difference,” Mick continues, dropping his voice down low to the register he knows Len likes best. “He generously offered to take that pretty mouth of yours, fuck you quiet like I know he’s been dying to since day one, make you gag on him and come on your pretty little face –”

Len swallows. His nakedness means he can’t hide it when his cock twitches, no matter how expressionless he tries to keep his face.

“And me, of course, I’d get to fuck your tight ass. Maybe I’d eat you out first, get you all sloppy and open, and then I’d just slide right in. You’d like that, wouldn’t you? You always have. Hell, I’m amazed you didn’t jump me out in that battlefield, back in World War I. Must’ve been an epic struggle for a slut like you, seeing what you want in front of you and not getting it.”

Len presses his lips tighter, but his cheeks are flushed. 

Barry’s not unmoved by Mick’s recital, either; he’s gone bright red and he’s breathing a bit hard, shifting a little from foot to foot. He’s only wearing a set of sweatpants and a long-sleeved STAR Labs t-shirt, all the better for easy access, and there’s a pretty decently sized tent in the front of them, smear of pre-come starting to darken a spot in the front.

“But then, see, I thought to myself that that was just limiting ourselves,” Mick continues, stepping forward, cupping Len’s chin and forcing his gaze up to meet Mick’s eyes. “I’m gonna wreck that pretty little ass of yours,” he purrs. “Me and Scarlet, both of us. Forget all that bullshit about trauma recovery that those assholes on the ship or in the lab were spouting. That’s what you really need, to get that scheming little brain fucked right out of you. That’s what you _want_.”

He reaches out blind and catches Barry, reeling him in. “That what you want, Lenny?” he asks, turning his face away from where he’s still got Len’s chin pointed up at him. He pulls Barry into a kiss, makes it deep and long and wet, makes it good, _forces_ Len to watch him slipping the speedster some tongue, watch how Barry moans and wraps his hands around Mick’s neck, how he rubs against Mick’s body desperately. Mick’s in a pair of jeans, the old ones that were always Len’s favorites, rough in texture but worn soft by use, the ones that are so tight they look like they’ve been painted on. His cheap white tank shows off his arms, his burns that he’s so proud of, and it’s already been soaked through with sweat, translucent all the way down to his chest. 

Len makes a choked little mewling sound.

_Gotcha._

“Don’t worry,” Mick says, pulling away from a panting Barry, who’s eyes have gone gratifyingly wide. “I’m not gonna make you beg for it – ” _This time_ , his voice promises, dark and silky. “– I’m gonna let you show us how much you want it through your actions. That’s the important part with Lenny here, Scarlet; you gotta watch what he does.”

Mick wraps an arm around an unresisting Barry and pushes him forward until he’s right in front of Barry, dropping Len’s chin – Len doesn’t move his head an inch – to push Barry’s sweats down his thighs, letting his cock bob free right in front of Len’s mouth and his balls all tight up beneath them.

“Barry here’s just begging for it,” Mick says. “Can’t you tell?” He drops his hand down and gives Barry’s cock a quick pull.

Barry moans.

“Maybe I should just get him off myself,” Mick muses. “Don’t need you, do I?”

Len licks his lips.

“But you want him, don’t you?” Mick smirks and pulls his hands away, leaving Barry swaying. 

He pops the button of his jeans, drawing both Barry and Len’s attention to his hands as he slowly drags the zipper down and pulls out his own cock. He’s bigger than Barry, thicker by far. Barry’s maybe a little longer and curves to the side, he observes, unlike his own. But you know what they say - variety is the spice of life. 

“You want this, too, though,” he says. “So lucky you. You get both. Get us nice and wet, boss; you’re gonna want us ready to go later.”

Len glares up at him, eyes narrow and dangerous, but that doesn’t keep him from opening his mouth when Mick guides Barry into his mouth, or from hollowing out his cheeks as he sucks on his nemesis’ cock. 

“You’re gonna think of this every time he looks at you on the battlefield,” Mick whispers in Barry’s ear, and Barry groans and jerks his hips forward.

Chuckling, Mick moves himself forward, too, grabbing the back of Len’s head to pull him off with a pop. “Don’t forget me,” he reminds his partner, and then he releases him.

Len so revved up, he doesn’t even take the time to roll his eyes before he’s on them, head bobbing up and down on Mick’s cock for a minute before turning his attention to running his mouth down the side of Barry’s. It’s the hottest thing Mick’s ever seen, including porn, and Len’s taking it like a pro.

“We’re gonna do this again,” he says. _Promises_. “Next time we’re fighting, Flash is gonna kidnap you, pull you away into a closet, and he’s gonna steal me away, and you’ll have both hands free that time, too – gonna let you jerk us both off while we’re waiting for you to suck us off – you wearing that stupid parka of yours –”

“Jesus, _Mick_ ,” Barry says. He’s got a hand clenched on Len’s shoulder for balance, the other one holding onto Mick’s arm. He’s got sweat rolling down his face. “You’ve got a dirty mind.”

“You can’t say you didn’t think about it,” Mick retorts. “Now, Lenny, show him what you can do, will you?”

Len hums in agreement and slides Barry in deeper in a fluid motion, gags himself on Barry’s cock until his nose is pressed up into the patch of hair right above Barry’s cock.

“Holy _crap_!” 

“Bet you didn’t think that was possible outside of porn,” Mick laughs. He certainly hadn’t, not until the first time Len’d done it for him – it’d been a surprise to them both, a surprise they’d both taken their sweet and most enjoyable time in exploring. 

“Fuck – I’m not – it’s gonna –”

“Go for it,” Mick says, stroking his own dick. “Come in his mouth. You’ll get it back up by the time we’re ready to fuck him.”

That just gets Len to suck even harder.

“I want –” Barry pants. “You said earlier –”

Mick laughs. Kinky little speedster. He can see why Len liked him so much. “You wanna come on his face, huh?”

He reaches out and grabs Len’s head, one hand on his head to steady him and the other by the chin, pulling his mouth open. 

“He wants you to,” he says to Barry, who’s started thrusting helplessly into Len’s slack mouth, fucking in good, using him just the way Len liked it. “C’mon – mark him up – have that image in your head every time you go after him, every heist, every team-up, every meeting out all alone in the woods –”

Barry pulls out and strokes himself once, twice, and then he’s coming. 

Mick _knew_ that encounter in the woods was more charged than either of them had been admitting.

“There you go,” he says, running his thumb along Len’s lower lip, catching some of the come that was dripping down and smearing it in. 

Len’s panting now, all defensiveness gone, expressionless mask a distant memory. His cock is red and dripping. 

“Wonder if you remember the first time we did this,” Mick muses, pulling away to grab Len. Len makes it easy, wiggling into position, letting Mick lift him onto his cock. “I used a toy on you, slide it right in alongside me. You remember that?”

“Yeah,” Len says. “ _Yeah_.”

“Think you can do it again?”

Mick’s glad they stretched and lubed Len up earlier, because he’s still slick inside, still open, and he’s able to just slide right in to Len’s groan of pleasure. 

“Mick,” Len pants. “Mick – Mick – _Mick_ –”

Mick loves having Len moan his name like it’s the only thought left in that brilliant brain of his.

“Barry’s next,” he says in Len’s ear. “Look at him, he’s getting hard again already, just at the sight of you. He’s gonna climb onto this bed and I’m gonna hoist you up, and he’s gonna slide in right next to me. You’re gonna be filled up, Lenny, just the way you like it.”

“Oh _god_ ,” Len groans, and lolls his head back.

He’s definitely not objecting.

Barry does just as Mick says, stretching Len open first with his fingers, sliding the narrow digits right in beside Mick’s cock, and then replacing them with his cock.

Even Mick has to groan when Barry slides in, the tightness doubled, the feeling of Barry’s cock hot against him.

“You like that, don’t you?” he says, barely knowing if he’s talking to Len, or Barry, or himself. “Yeah, you do –”

And then Barry starts fucking _vibrating_ , and they’re both thrusting and Len is shouting and coming all over himself, Barry’s hand on his cock and Mick’s arms around him and Mick’s only a few minutes behind.

Barry pulls out, still hard, and jerks himself off all over the two of them, lying there curled up on the bed. He’s got a thing for marking people, their little speedster. Possessive little superhero.

Mick grunts and pulls himself out, too, enjoying the sight of how his come drips out of Len’s ass to mingle with Len’s own, and Barry’s too.

“Nice,” Mick says.

“We are _definitely_ doing this again,” Barry says.

“Naturally,” Len says, grabbing Barry’s arm – wait, when did he get out of the ropes? Goddamn sneak thief – and pulling the speedster into his arms, very pointedly snuggling back against Mick with every evident intention of the three of them staying put. “I need a _lot_ of therapy. We all do.”

“Group therapy really is the most effective,” Mick says.

Barry rolls his eyes and laughs, but he stays, which is what’s important.


	2. Las Vegas

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Legends of Super Flarrow Kink Meme Prompt: dialogue prompt for any pairing: "Remember that one time you had to run naked down the Las Vegas strip?" "I wasn't naked! I was wearing over 400 thousand dollars worth of pearls and a feather boa, thank you very much." 
> 
> Coldwave

“God, you’re gorgeous.”

Len preens a little. Not every day he can convince Mick to say that about him instead of a lighter. 

Of course, he is dressed as a particularly convincing Vegas showgirl. Showguy? He’s obviously a man, but they draped him in fake pearls, the _tiniest_ little top made entirely of strings and just enough fabric to cover his nipples and literally nothing else, and the bottom…well. Len’s pretty sure a thong would be more covering, but he’s pretty sure he’s not breaking any laws going outside the way he looks.

In Nevada, anyway.

Anywhere else, he’d probably be looking at jail time for indecent exposure.

Mick – who’s been playing total strangers with him, infiltrating the local Family under the guise of a messenger from Central – has finally gotten him the intel Len needed to swipe the pearls from where they’d been keeping. 

It’d been a hell of a time, serving drinks while dressed in the local colors, letting Family men smack his ass and smiling at them when they did it while still avoiding anyone asking him for anything extra. 

Which was hard because wow, people felt _really_ free to just go up to someone and ask for a blowjob out back, and Len had to keep this job for now, not get arrested for unlicensed prostitution _or_ excessive violence because some jerk couldn't take 'no' for an answer and Len felt the need to put them down. 

At least, he'd needed to keep this job until Mick had figured out where the jewels were being kept.

Turned out, the local Family didn’t just own the joint; they also kept their safe here, too. 

_Perfect._

Mick pretended to get drunk, then he’d cornered Len, pushed him into a corner and nuzzled his neck and whispered the intel into Len's ear.

Len had laughed and hissed back orders, pushing him back flirtatiously and promising that if Mick wanted some one-on-one time, he could always go through the booking system.

He’d actually gotten a bonus from his boss for that. Apparently the Family wanted to make sure their Central City visitor was on the hook, but hadn’t managed to snag him yet.

Of course they hadn’t. Mick belongs to _Len_.

After that, of course, the plan had been easy. Len had insisted on wearing all white – white spangles, white heels, and most especially white pearls.

Mick, in turn, ordered a series of lap dances from Len in the private back room, winking at his buddies in the Family. 

Once they’d been there, well, Mick took a nice nap while Len used the time wisely, wiggling through the vents to the safe right upstairs, swapping his fake pearls for the real ones and coming back.

And here they are, Mick awake and grinning at him in anticipated victory, Len grinning back with the adrenaline still running through his system, four hundred thousand dollars in pearls glistening around Len’s neck and arms and even on his head like a tiara. 

“We still have a bit of time to kill,” he purrs, tossing a leg over Mick’s lap – high heels, feather boat, lingerie with a million spangles and all. He runs his hands up Mick’s arms, enjoying how the heavy bass beat of the music makes them both shake. “How about you get your dance?”

“Yeah,” Mick says, his voice low. “Sounds good to me.”

Len’s not actually any good at stripping – or dancing – but he can shimmy just as well as the next thief, and that’s more than good enough for Mick.

“Maybe you should get undressed,” Mick suggests. “Wouldn’t want them thinking I didn’t get my money’s worth.”

Then he slides his hands down Len’s thighs all the way down to the ankle, which Mick catches and strokes a little.

Len smirks and slides back onto the seat next to Mick, putting both feet in Mick’s lap while he undoes the ties that keep his top tied on.

“I can’t believe you can walk in these,” Mick murmurs, eyes caught on Len’s ridiculous shoes, running his fingers over Len’s toes, Len’s heel, the curve of his ankle, the way they’re strapped on. “They’re like – god, four inches? Five?”

“Six,” Len says smugly, pulling off his top while Mick caresses his feet, undoing the straps of his ridiculous shoes. He leaves the boa on, using it to tickle the side of Mick’s face and making him wrinkle his nose at him. “Lisa showed me how. It’s all in the balance.”

“You’re insane.”

“Yes,” Len says, twining the strand of pearls around his neck and letting them fall through his hand. “But _very_ pretty. All of your friends are probably jealous, even the straight ones.”

“Hell yeah,” Mick says, reaching up and sliding Len’s tiny little spangly panties down his ass and legs and off. “The ones that aren’t still sucking up to what’s his name, anyway.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah, some new guy showed up today. Randolph something.”

Len pauses.

“Randolph… _what_?” he asks. It couldn’t be…

“Uh. Merrick? Why?”

“Randolph Merrick,” Len says flatly. “Santini hit man. Who is currently, among other things, tracking _me_ for that job I did back in Central when you were out of town.”

“Uh…” 

Luckily, Mick’s warning comes just in time for Len to grab a pillow and sprint out of there before Merrick throws the door open and marches in with a gun. 

Unfortunately, it does _not_ come in time for Len to grab clothing. 

“Which way’d the guy in here go?” Len can hear Merrick demanding from Mick.

Good. Mick will point them in the wrong direction.

That doesn’t mean that Len doesn’t need to get out of here, _stat_. Eventually one of the Family men will find him.

He ducks out a side entrance. 

“Hey!” someone shouts. “Get back here!”

Yeah, _no_. 

Len drops the pillow and sprints.

His feather boa drifts behind him like the world’s wildest scarf.

(He’s just happy Mick got the shoes off. Dodging bullets is _definitely_ better done barefoot.)

Later on, when it’s all over and they’ve met up later, he finds out that Mick reacted in classic style, which grabs a tourist’s disposable camera and take a bunch of photos. Then mailed them to Lisa, because he’s a dick like that.

He also brought the shoes to the hideout with a shit-eating grin. Len throws them at his head, but agrees to wear them again once Mick shows him the evidence he planted showing that Merrick was actually the one who stole the pearls, not them. 

They’re _very_ good partners.


	3. coldflash week 1 - when the bat comes in

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> coldflash week 1 - for days 3 (forced to work together) and 5 (alternate earths)

“Hey, Bear! Got another one with your name on it!”

Barry groans. He’d be so damn close to getting out early, just once. 

“Sorry, man,” Julian says from the next desk over. “You know what they say: crime doesn’t sleep –”

“– and neither do the detectives,” Barry finished.

Sometimes he regrets not going in to be a CSI instead of following in Joe’s footsteps to become a detective. Still, Joe’s detective work – along with his deep and abiding faith in the innocence of his best friend when he had been suspected of killing his wife – had been the only thing that had thrown enough doubt on Barry’s dad’s case to win him an acquittal. Everyone else had assumed was open-and-shut and hadn’t bothered looking deep enough: only Joe had bothered. Only Joe had found the questionable evidence, thereby sparing Henry Allen the agonies of being imprisoned unfairly and letting him stay home to raise his son. 

Barry was determined to be that person to someone else.

He just wished crime slept a little bit more, that’s all.

In fairness, it wasn’t exactly Joe West’s police force anymore. 

“Hey, Iris,” Barry says, sliding into the seat next to her. “You know what happened?”

“Nope,” she says, buzzing with energy. “They say it’s related to the Big Five.”

Barry’s eyebrows shoot up. “JLA?” he asks. “In _our_ town?”

“Central’s a perfectly good town, Barry,” Iris sniffs. “We may not have a major superhero of our own, but we’re a presence.”

“But why are we involved, then?” Barry asks. “Don’t the capes usually prefer _not_ to work with the local authorities?” He frowns. “Except for Superman. And even then, it’s on his terms.”

“Yeah, well,” Eddie says, walking in with – thank god – cups of coffee for everyone. “From what I hear, we have a Bat.”

“In _Central_?” Iris exclaims.

“Central’s a perfectly good town, Iris,” Barry reminds her.

“Shut _up_. We _never_ get a Bat.”

“And more to the point, none of the Bats are exactly police-friendly,” Barry says.

“He needs the manpower,” Captain Singh says, walking through the door. “Anyone who wants to go home because they don’t feel like being recruited into an unlicensed vigilante with too much money’s plan which he won’t share with us in full, you should feel free – sit _down_ , Allen, I was being sarcastic – but I have been assured that this will save the world from something terrible beyond the ken of us mere mortals.”

Barry tries to hide a smile. Like most honest policemen, Singh doesn’t always appreciate interference from the capes.

“Terrible beyond our ken,” Eddie says dryly, not even bothering to hide his own smile. “That doesn’t quite sound like Central, I must admit. Have they finally decided to go up against our supervillains?”

“The Rogues, as ever, remain at large,” Singh replies. “Consider them armed and dangerous.”

This time, no one bothers hiding their laughter. 

Some five years ago, when the superhero craze had really been getting into high gear, several supervillains, several super-strength types and one super-intellectual, from other cities had noticed Central’s lack of a superhero and had decided that it made Central the perfect base from which to plan and launch their attacks on their home cities. 

That was when the Rogues had formed, a loose association of thieves and criminals with the sort of tech that would make them supervillains in another city, and they’d told the newcomers to butt out of their city.

They’d made their point _emphatically_.

City Hall had howled in panic about the idea of having a homegrown supervillain threat, but the Rogues were remarkably good about minimizing collateral damage. Their heists were mostly aimed at the rich corporations, too, none of which headquartered in Central anyway, so the only people really being hurt were the politicians that were being funded by them.

The Rogues also imposed a pretty strict ‘no killing cops’ rule, which they enforced throughout Central. In return, the CCPD made only token efforts to catch them when they weren’t actively engaged in a heist. 

Barry was about 70% sure that the guy who haggled with the fresh fish people at the farmer’s market every Saturday was Mick Rory – it was a little hard to tell, given that his usual Rogues suit involved goggles to protect him from his heat gun – but he wasn’t going to check, either. 

“Anyway, boys,” Singh says, raising his hands for silence. “And girls, of course. We’re canvassing the area. Batman – and yes, the _main_ one, not one of the promoted Robins, I know, I know, I’m surprised too – said to look for anything unusual.”

“Define unusual,” Iris says, slouching back in her seat. “Man dressed as a giant bat running around, that’s pretty unusual.”

“He said we’d know it when we saw it,” Singh replies, sounding equally unenthused. No one liked the high-handed way the superheroes treated the police, like they were side characters in a penny-novel instead of hard-working men and women trying to serve a city in which the crime had only gotten worse and worse as the years went on. 

“So, porn,” Barry says.

Everyone bursts out laughing. 

Singh is trying to keep order, but Barry sees the smirk tugging on his lips. “Enough, enough. If the Bat’s come personally, it’s probably something _really_ unusual. Which we’ll know when we see.” He pauses, considering. “Someone should probably survey the sewers, but avoid the GZ. While that might fit Batman’s criteria, it’s not really _unusual_ …anymore.”

Grodd’s lair was something of an open secret in Central. 

People were slowly adjusting.

“You’ve each been assigned a district to survey – keep your radio and back-up close by. We don’t know what we’re dealing with here,” Singh says. He’s managed to eliminate most, but not all of the resentment in his voice. 

“No problem,” Iris says. “You know how these things go – we do all the legwork, and in the end, the Bat does the grand finale. We’ll all be back in time for dinner.”

“Knock on wood,” Barry says, and grins at his oldest friend.

“I’m telling you,” she says. “Piece of _cake_.”

\--

Barry coughs, his eyes tearing up from the dust. He crawls forward, too dizzy to get up. His face feels slippery.

He might be bleeding. Probably a head wound. Those bled like crazy; he’s more worried about the untreated concussion he probably has.

The box… _thing_ …is still glowing, even after that explosion.

The Bat is gasping for air. There’s something on his chest.

It’s glowing, too.

Barry pulls himself forward. One of his legs isn’t working. “Bat –” he hacks another cough.

Eddie’s slumped over in the corner; he can see that from where he is. He doesn’t know where the others he’d called in for back-up are. 

He hopes they’re still alive.

“Batman,” he rasps. “Bat…”

The Bat’s head slowly turns and his eyes fix on Barry. His mask is broken in three places, but there’s so much blood, it’s not like Barry can see anything.

He crooks his fingers.

Barry’s not sure if that was intentional, but he pulls himself forward anyway.

It’s hard.

It’s much harder than it ought to be; Barry’s legs have stopped working and his left arm is going numb and it feels like there’s an anvil tied to his chest.

But damnit, Barry was born stubborn and he grew up stubborn and he’s not going to let this weird magic bullshit stop him.

He gets within a foot of Batman before suddenly Batman’s hand shoots out, gauntleted fist seizing Barry’s collar and pulling him in, right up to Batman’s face.

“Get – plan,” Batman rasps, his voice even thicker and lower than usual. He’s barely understandable.

“What plan?” Barry asks, blinking.

“Genius,” Batman hisses. “Need – genius. _Don’t_ –”

“Don’t?”

“Don’t trust,” Batman gasps, his chest rattling in an unhealthy way. “JLA.”

Barry’s eyes go wide. “Wait,” he says, “wait, you –”

He feels Batman’s hand curl around his own, pushing a scrap of paper into his fist.

“But –” Barry starts helplessly.

“ _Go!_ ”

And he throws Barry away from him with surprising strength, less than a second before the box explodes a second time.

Everything goes fuzzy for a while after that. 

In the end, they keep Barry in the hospital for about 48 hours before letting him out.

He desperately wants to go home, but he goes down to the station, instead.

“Barry,” Iris shouts, jumping over a desk to grab him into an embrace. Eddie rushes forward from behind him to stabilize him. _He_ got to go home with Iris after a brief consultation with the EMTs. 

“How are you?” Eddie asks.

“I’m okay,” Barry says. “They were really just keeping me to make sure I wasn’t traumatized or something.” He tries to smile. It doesn’t feel right on his face.

“I can’t believe you’re _here_ ,” Iris says. “They shouldn’t have released you.”

“I’m not actually hurt, Iris.”

“You nearly got _killed_ ,” Iris says. “You watched a _cape_ get killed.”

“Batman’s not dead,” Barry says. He hesitates. “Unless you’ve heard something?”

“No,” Iris says, disgusted. “The capes flew him away, and that’s the last we’ve heard – apparently _capes_ get treated at the fancy-smancy JLA HQ.”

Barry shrugs, but privately he agrees. The least they could’ve done would be drop him off at the hospital, but they’d been concerned with getting the Bat home. Or to the JLA HQ. Whatever.

Capes were kind of shitty to people they assumed were collateral damage.

But they were heroes. 

At least –

Barry’d always thought they were.

_Don’t trust the JLA._

“Iris,” Barry says. “Can I talk to you?”

He trusts Iris more than anything. They practically grew up together, joined at the hip. She was his first crush, nursed for far too long, before his dad gave him a talk about expectations and friendship and encouraged him to make his move, resulting in her shutting him down and him moving on. 

Iris he trusts with _anything_. 

“Sure,” she says. She kisses Eddie lightly on the cheek – they’re engaged now, still recently enough for it to be exciting – and heads after Barry.

He goes to the roof where the smokers go because there are no cameras there.

“What’s up, partner?” she asks.

Barry swallows. “I need to tell you something,” he says. “And I know you’re busy with your wedding plans and all that, so if you don’t want to be bothered –”

“Nah, we’re not actually planning on getting married for at least a year,” Iris says dismissively. “Need to give both our families time to freak out first. Also, you’re my partner and I’ve got your back. Now spill it.”

Barry tells her.

Tells her what happened in that abandoned warehouse.

Tells her what happened to the Bat.

What happened to Barry.

What the Bat said to him, in a hushed whisper, like he thought someone would overhear. 

And, more than that, Barry shows her what it was that he got from the Bat.

“This doesn’t make any sense,” she says, staring at the incomprehensible squiggles.

“That’s what I thought,” Barry says. He runs his fingers through his hair. “The Bat said I needed to give it to a genius.”

“Do we even _know_ any geniuses? If we give it to any of the eggheads in the department, they’ll probably alert the JLA. Not even on purpose; I would bet money that the JLA has spying programs of all sorts in all the police databases, even though they’ve never admitted it.”

“I don’t disagree,” Barry says. “So I’ve been thinking.”

He pauses. Licks his lips.

“Well?” she says.

“You’re not going to like it,” he warns her.

Iris crosses her arms. “Tell me.”

He tells her.

“No! Absolutely _not_!” she shouts. 

“Shhhh!” Barry hisses, waving his hands. “And it’s not like I have a _better_ alternative, okay?!”

“You have –”

She hesitates. 

“Wells turned out to be evil, remember?” Barry reminds her. “He was deliberately sabotaging his own Particle Accelerator in an attempt to make this city a hotbed of metahumans; we wouldn’t have found out about it if it wasn’t for Hartley Rathaway turning evidence.”

“And you believing him,” Iris reminds him.

Barry shrugs. That had been his biggest collar so far, the one that made him feel like he deserved the title of detective instead of just wearing it. 

“But still,” Iris says, “ _Snart_?”

“He _is_ undeniably a genius,” Barry says.

“So is – Tina McGee!”

Barry looks at her.

“Cisco Ramon?”

“Do you think either of them is the type of genius that Batman meant?”

“…no,” she concedes. “But how are you going to even _find_ Snart? The Rogues don’t just sit around wherever you can find them – and even if you do find him, how in the world will you convince him to work with you? You’re a cop! Snart _hates_ cops! Everybody knows that.”

“First,” Barry says, “let me find him. Then I’ll worry about convincing him.”

“But how will you find him?”

Barry smiles a little crookedly. “I think I’m going to go get some fish. You want me to pick you up something from the farmer's market while I'm there?”

"I want you to still be alive come nightfall, that's what I want," Iris grumbles.

\--

“You’d better not fuck this up, kid,” Rory warns him gruffly. “I’m only doing this ‘cause you seem sincere, but if you use this against us...” He trails off warningly.

Barry nods, swallowing. “I won’t. I promise.”

They reach the bar at the end of the street.

_Saints & Sinners._

“Is this the place?”

“Yeah,” Rory says. “We’re just about always here. C’mon.”

He leads the way inside.

The inside of the bar is – well. It’s like any other dive bar.

If any other dive bar had distinctly identifiable Rogues hanging out in the bar stools, in the booths, playing pool, watching TV.

And one of the ones sitting at the bar, watching a game of hockey, is the single most beautiful man Barry’s ever seen, wearing a instantly recognizable blue parka and a heavy gun strapped onto his thigh.

Rory doesn’t say anything, but it’s less than a moment before Snart is turning to regard them.

A faint smirk curls his lips.

“Mick,” he drawls, the voice that put Central City’s accent on the map. Leader of the Rogues, the man who mastered absolute zero, he who was widely recognized as the finest thief in the entire country, courted by other supervillains, and member of at least three different Leagues, Legions, and Societies. 

Defender of Central City.

“What did you bring us?” Snart asks.

“A cop,” Rory says, mincing no words. “Name of Barry Allen. He’s got something to ask of you.”

“I see,” Snart says. His eyes show no discernible emotion as he scans Barry from head to toes and back. “Well then, Allen. I suggest you start talking.”

Barry swallows again, gathers his courage –

– and speaks.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is more of a lead-up to a story I will probably not write in full, so if anyone wants it, it's yours - no need to ask permission, just go ahead and link me to it when you're done!
> 
> ...okay, I might keep going. No promises.


	4. coldflash week 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> coldflash week 2 - another for day 3 (forced to work together)

“Listen, I don’t want to be here anymore than you do,” Len says.

“ _You’re_ getting paid for this,” Barry shoots back. “ _Unlike_ me.”

“Yes, and this would normally be enjoyable for me, but you’re being annoying.”

“Listen, if you’re not taking this seriously –”

“I _am_ ,” Len says. “You’re just over-thinking this. Relax. I promise it won’t hurt.”

“Why did it have to be with _you_?” Barry groans. 

“Because I know your secret identity,” Len says mildly. “Everyone _knows_ that I know your secret identity. You can’t really go through this whole process vibrating your face the whole time, and no one else is – ah – _qualified_ to deal with this issue. I’m the clearly the obvious solution.”

“Hardly obvious,” Barry grumbles. “I don’t know why Cisco couldn’t have –”

“You asked him,” Len points out. “He refused.”

“He didn’t refuse,” Barry says. “He just walked so gingerly around the subject that I retracted my request. I don’t want to make him uncomfortable and screw up our friendship over…this.”

“Lucky for you, I’m not anywhere near as nice,” Len says. “And we don’t have a friendship to ruin over it.” 

Barry pouts a little. “Not even a little?”

“No. We’re nemeses.”

“I don’t know if I can trust a nemesis with this. It’s important to me. Even if it isn't to you.”

“I keep telling you, I know what I’m doing,” Len says. “I’ve done it many times before. Lots of experience – _good_ experience. But it won’t work unless you relax a bit.”

“I don’t know…”

“C’mon, this can’t be your first time.”

“It’s the first time it’s this important!”

“Aww, I’m touched.”

“Not because of _you_! I just – I haven’t really – since becoming the Flash –”

“What? But it’s been _years_!”

“I know! But it was a secret, you know! It’s not like I could go up to just anybody.”

“Which is what brought you to me.”

Barry sighs. “Just – go slow, okay?”

Len arches his eyebrows. “Really, Barry? You want to give me _that_ opening?”

“…consider the comment retracted. Listen, I’m being vulnerable here, okay? This is – this is really important. I don’t want to fuck up or be embarrassing or anything like that.”

“Embarrassment,” Len says dryly, “is practically a requirement at this point. You know it would’ve been a lot easier if you didn’t constantly travel in time, right?”

“You were on the Legends!”

“And I’m also a criminal. Well, I was. Now that my record’s all squeaky clean, I can do things I couldn’t do before.” Len leans forward, smiling. “Like this.”

Barry groans. “So it’s all my fault.”

“In the end,” Len agrees. “Now – ready to stop stalling, or would you like to go in circles a little longer?”

“Fine,” Barry says grudgingly. “I give in. Let’s – let’s do this.”

“Good,” Len says, and leans back. He picks up the folder on the table. “So, as a practice run, I’ve taken the liberty of filling in the information from your official job's W-2 and bank documents, but we’ll need to start by reviewing them –”

“I still can’t believe _the Flash_ is getting audited,” Barry says, his head in his hands. “And that _you’re_ my accountant.”

“Don’t start that again, Scarlet,” Len drawls. “Just wait till we get to your receipts. Which I _assume_ you kept some copy of.”

“…oh, crap.”

Len sniggers. “Don’t worry,” he says. “I got some basics from Cisco.”

“I _hate_ you.”

“It’s mutual,” Len says. “Now c’mon; the sooner we finish this, the sooner I can take you home and make you forget all about it.”

“You’re still being a terrible boyfriend, making me do this,” Barry grumbles. “Okay. W-2. Let’s do this thing.”


	5. Mick/Mazikeen, Mick/Len/Mazikeen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> @oneriad prompt - http://oneiriad.tumblr.com/post/161556014181/luciferarrowverse-au-where-mick-rory-hooks-up

The Time Masters' reach is long and broad, going not just forward and backwards through time but also sideways.

"Okay," Kronos says.

"This doesn't burn your brain out?" Declan asks suspiciously.

Kronos shrugs. He's got experience with burning.

"We're literally showing you _multiple dimensions_ \- the human brain itself would burst if not for the protections we have afforded you -"

Kronos momentarily entertains the mental image of his hand shoving Declan out the window of the little bubble they're in, followed shortly by Declan's head imploding.

He puts that in the mental file of "things to tell Snart". 

It's a pretty big file. 

Yes, he's aware he's been programmed so that revenge against his partner (former partner? They usually kept calling each other partner even when they were split up, so it's hard to tell) is all he really cares about, but as anyone who knows can tell you, feeling that intense about something all the time is hard. Tiring. 

Not really sustainable. 

Kronos is an expert in fire. He knows how to avoid burn out.

So he keeps one file in his head titled "Plans for Revenge on Snart Before I Kill Him" and another titled "Cool Things To Tell Snart About When We're Partners Again".

He's aware they're incompatible. He's just choosing to ignore that.

Just like he's choosing to ignore the weird dimension-y stuff going on in front of his eyes.

"This is where you will be going as our emissary," Declan says, having pulled himself together. He's still pouting about Kronos not having ooh'd and aah'd over his fancy multiple dimension viewer, but seriously, what was he expecting? You want emotion, don't bloody well mind-wipe your bounty hunters. "To the Pit."

"The Pit," Kronos says. He has mental images of a Sarlacc stomach.

"Hell itself, in all its glory," Declan says. He smiles a nasty smile. "The people we send in there don't always come back. And when they do, they come back - wrong. That's why we don't send Time Masters on this task: far too valuable. This is a job for bounty hunters like you. Rats. Expendable."

"Losing all those letters must make the mail service annoyingly slow," Kronos says. 

Declan chooses to ignore that. Looks like they're both good at ignoring stuff.

"You will take the Time Masters' message to the Lord of the Pit," Declan tells Kronos. "And then return. Do you have any questions?"

"Go, give note, return," Kronos recites. "Can do, no problem."

The Time Masters hate how they can't tell if he's being sarcastic under his helmet, but they don't want to lose face by ordering him to remove it.

Heh. Lose _face_. That's going in the Snart Appreciation File.

"Go forth, then," Declan says, gesturing magnificently.

Then he frowns, because Kronos doesn't move. 

"Is there a problem?" he asks in a voice that warned of future mind wipes.

"You want me to wait for an answer?" Kronos asks. "Or just plop it down and leave?"

Declan blinks. He clearly hadn't considered that. "I suppose asking if he wants to reply is fine," he says dubiously. "He's never responded before; he just sends some minions to do the job, really."

"Fair enough," Kronos says. Then he checks his buckles to make sure his suit's on air-tight mode and walks into Hell.

All hail the fucking Time Masters.

\--

Hell is darker than he expected.

"Seriously?" he asks one of the walls of the dark, endless hallway, filled with doors. "No brimstone? No fire? I feel cheated."

He continues on his way. As he goes, doors open up alluringly, but he's got a job to do and a Snart to get back and torment. Maybe he can use some ideas from this place.

Kronos looks around and snorts. Not unless Snart's developed a sudden phobia of doors, anyway.

There's a light ahead. A throne room.

...jazz?

Kronos walks into the light and watches a horrifically twisted skinned-alive face monster with pretty pretty white wings play the piano. It's finishing up a piece, and Kronos is abruptly aware - deep in his bones - that in a moment it will turn it's terrible gaze upon him. 

Fear, horror, yadda yadda.

"Do you know any Gershwin?" Kronos asks.

The creature twists to look at him, offended. "Do I know Gerswhin? Are you kidding? Of course I know Gershwin!"

The dread gaze isn't quite as effective when it's accompanied by a pissy British accent.

Devil's apparently British. 

Kronos is totally unsurprised by this. In fairness, he _is_ Irish, so really it's less of a lack of a surprise and more of a smug satisfaction in having been right all along...

"Like, that one from Fantasia 2000?" he asks.

The Devil puts his face in his hands. "You don't even know the name," he groans. "One of the most beautiful pieces of music and it's 'that one from Fantasia 2000' -"

"Yeah," Kronos says, unimpressed. "But you knew which one I meant, didn't you?"

Someone snickers.

Kronos cuts his eyes over. It's a demon. Half-woman, half-thing, but that's not what catches his eye.

She's at a bar.

"You have liquor!" he exclaims.

"Of course I do," the Devil grumbles. "Devil's drink."

"So you've got all the stuff, huh?" Kronos asks. "Drugs?"

"Naturally."

"Hookers?"

"A-plenty."

"Angel food cake?"

"Yes, we - wait. No, we don't have that. Why in the world are you even asking?"

The demon sniggers again and pours Kronos a drink. 

Kronos shrugs. "Thought it was funny."

"I like this one, Maze," the Devil announces. "He's the first bit of entertainment in, well, forever." He rises up and walks over. "Now, human, tell me -" and he looks right into Kronos' mask, his gaze so powerful that Kronos is nearly buffeted back a step "- what is it you desire most?"

"At the moment, I'd settle for a good nap," Kronos says honestly. "But barring that, I really want to light the Time Masters on fire and then find my best friend. Not sure what I want to do with him - still pending - but yeah. Fire, dead bosses, and Snart. Do you know how long it's been since I burned something?"

"Oh, you're a pyromaniac," the Devil says. He sounds disappointed.

"Yeah," Kronos says. "Out and proud, too. Are you the guy I should put in a complaint in about the decor here? I didn't kill people to go to a hell with no fire. I feel cheated."

The Devil snorts involuntarily. "You get used to it," he says. "Unfortunately."

"I don't plan to," Kronos says. He pulls out the message from the Time Masters. "For you. Lemme know if you want to send a reply."

"I like this one," the demon - Maze - says. "Much better than the muscle-bound brain-dead ones they usually send. I think I'll have sex with him."

"Liquor first," Kronos tells her. He hasn't drunk any, but that's because he's got a job to do. Maybe he'll just take a bottle to go. "Then food. _Then_ fucking. Not that you're not hot, it's just been a while, y'know?"

"You think I'm hot?" she says, amused. "Even with my face?"

"You know how long it's been since I got laid?" he asks. "Yes, you're hot. There's a whole genre of porn about demon ladies. But right now - I'm gonna be obvious - I would probably bonk Mr. Facetime here."

The Devil is suddenly a very attractive man, though he keeps the wings.

"Make that would definitely," Kronos decides. "You pro-threesomes here in Hell?"

"Are you propositioning us?" the Devil asks, delighted.

"Sure, why not? But first I've got to get your reply."

"Oh, yes - let me see - hmm. My word, they're evil. Very evil. Yeesh. Yes, we'll take them. Tell the so-called 'Time Masters' that they won't need to trouble themselves."

"Isn't Yeesh technically short for -"

"Don't," Maze says. 

Kronos shrugs. "Okay," he says. "I'll take back the reply."

"I thought we were going to do the horizontal tango?" the Devil asks.

"Rain check," Kronos says regretfully. "I have a work ethic."

"Pity," the Devil says. 

"Well, if you successfully manage to get out of here," Maze says, "consider it a rain check."

She offers him the bottle.

He takes it and heads back.

The way back is longer than the way there, annoyingly enough, and he ends up being lured in through a door.

_Fire, fire and his family burning -_

Mick sighs. "I got _therapy_ ," he says bitterly to the flames consuming his family in new and inventive ways that he's certain didn't happen in real life. He's seen the autopsy reports; they died of carbon monoxide poison. There was no screaming that he didn't invent himself. "Lenny insisted. So fuck you."

And then he turns around and walks back out of Hell.

\--

"Given how much you dislike your employers, and I must say that is a good hearty amount of dislike, have you considered quitting?" the Devil asks, the next time Kronos is there.

"Have you?" Kronos replies.

"I can't just quit. I'm the _Devil_. Lucifer. Beelzebub. Old Scratch."

"Sucks to be you, then," Kronos says. "Door's right there."

"...what would I even _do_ if I quit?"

"Go to Disney World," Kronos says immediately.

Maze bursts out laughing. She's sitting on Kronos' lap this time, though sadly Kronos is still fully dressed. They haven't really worked out the logistics of "head exploding" vs. "sexual gratification" yet.

"It's Hell on Earth," Kronos tells the Devil earnestly. "Really. Especially if you don't like kids."

"He hates kids," Maze says, amused.

"I don't!" the Devil protests. "I admit, they're mostly foul beasts, by and large useless and annoying, but I'm certain finer specimens exist."

"I foresee a romantic comedy involving an adorable gap-toothed child in your future," Kronos says.

"Don't say such things," the Devil sulks. "You're going by the name of the Titan of Time. Your curses may actually have an effect."

"Fine," Kronos says. "I predict a romantic comedy-slash-mystery-thriller-comedy-police procedural in your future. But it still involves an adorable gap-toothed child."

"That doesn't sound half bad," the Devil muses. "Better than Hell. Better than being blamed for all of humanity's crimes, the scapegoat for all -"

"Say," Kronos says before the guy gets really going. "Do you know 'Nobody Knows the Trouble I've Seen'?"

"...I do, but I suspect you're not actually requesting it."

"The real version requires a violin," Kronos says. "Very tiny. World's smallest -"

"I like you," Maze says again.

"I could do very bad things to you," the Devil informs Kronos. "Very bad. Absolutely awful. And I would, too, if I wasn't so damn sick of this place." He pauses. "Maybe I should retire and start a nightclub."

"Have you considered therapy?" Kronos asks.

\--

"Did you end up sleeping with her?" Len asks.

"No," Mick says regretfully. "Never quite got over the head exploding thing."

They're sitting side-by-side in the cell they'd been keeping Kronos in. Len's face is bruised up something awful, as is the rest of him. Mick - definitely Mick now, not Kronos - is noticeably less bruised. Len was barely even trying.

Stupid jerk, nearly getting himself killed. Like that would ever be tolerable.

So, with the Murder Snart file good and closed, Mick shifted over to the Cool Stuff For Snart one.

That file included Mazikeen in all her ridiculous hotness.

(Len had found the "face" joke hilariously funny. Mick'd known he would.)

"I think I'm gonna die on this mission," Len says.

"Don't you fucking dare," Mick says. 

"Come pick me up in hell?" 

"Fine," Mick grumbles, and fingers the spare pentecostal coin the Devil had given him for being the first Time Master flunky to come back twice - a feat worthy of recognition, apparently. "Maybe just don't?"

"I'll do my best," Len says. "But you know how these things go."

The whole thing would've been easier if Len hadn't died saving the entire timeline, and Mick, too, by blowing up the Vanishing Point.

It takes Mick a full goddamn year to find the dimension jumper again, floating gentle as a feather through the time stream.

Once he had that, he had to find Len.

Who'd gotten lost, as far as Mick could tell. "What do you mean he's not here?" he asks the pissed-off demon guard. 

"None of them are here," the demon says grumpily. He'd refused to talk at first, but Mick had plied him with the liquor Maze had given him that first time and he was much nicer now. "Not the Lord of Hell, not Mazikeen, not your buddy."

"Then where the hell - literally - did he go?" Mick exclaims.

"Have you tried the other direction?" the demon suggests.

Mick groans and trudges back to the dimension jumper.

"I'm here to pick up a friend," he says all-polite like to the guy at the gates.

"You're actually serious," the guy says. He sounds surprised.

Mick shrugs. "I brought bail?" He offers the pentecostal coin.

The guy - angel, Mick guesses, since he's got the wings and all - squints at it. "Well, yes," he says. "I suppose that'll do. Which one?"

"Leonard Snart aka Captain Cold."

"Oh, him," the angel says. "I'll give that one to you for free."

"What, really?"

"He keeps trying to break out to go to hell," the angel says. He sounds appalled by it. "He thinks that's where you and his sister are. Will be. Whatever."

Awww. Ain't that just like Len. 

"I'll take him off your hands," Mick offers generously.

"Just get him to give Death's necklace back," the angel says morosely. "She thinks he's adorable, but she won't leave to go keep collecting without it."

When a scowling Len is brought out, Mick waves. Len brightens.

"Sometimes," Mick tells him, "a cage is not a prison. This is a nice place."

"It's the /wrong place," Len says. "I'm Jewish, damnit. This place is too damn Christian."

"You insisted on being brought here!" the angel exclaims.

"Well, yeah," Len says. "Mick here knows the Devil. I figured staying inside the same mythology was a sure bet."

The angel looks like he's considering beating his head against the walls of his city.

"Give Death her necklace back," Mick tells Len.

"Oh, _fine_ ," Len says. "Have you banged Maze yet?"

"Not yet," Mick says. "She's apparently left hell. As has the Devil."

"He did what?!" the angel yelps and then vanishes.

Well, that made things easier.

Len, holding the coin, is able to cross the barrier between worlds. Once he's back, Mick punches him.

"I deserved that," Len says.

"Yes you damn well did," Mick says.

"I made a file of cool stuff to tell you about?" Len offers.

Mick grunts. 

Then -

"...like what?"

"Well," Len says. "Death ended up having to make a detour before dropping me off here - are you familiar with Destiny? Because he's kind of a prick. Anyway, as I was saying, right after I died -"

\--

They're in L.A. 

"City of nice, big, shiny mansions," Len says happily. "Jewels of all types. Cash transfers -"

"Nightclubs," Mick says, nodding. "High cash holders _and_ liquor."

"Let's go to them all," Len says.

They're in club number three when Len says, "Let's go."

"Why?" Mick asks. There's no way Len has cased the place yet.

"I've heard of an even better place," Len tells him.

"Oh?"

"Yeah," Len says. "It's called Lux. And I've heard the bartender is something real special -"

She is.

Mick _finally_ gets to call in that threesome. Even if it is with Len and not Devil-face, who's currently going by Lucifer and seems to have ended up in a romantic comedy-slash-mystery-thriller-comedy-police procedural.

An adorable gap-toothed child is involved.

"What, really?" Mick asks Maze.

"You're a seventh son," she tells him. "You have the Sight. We _told_ you not to make jokes."

"If he's happy," Len says, yawning, "then who cares?"

"I do," she says. "He's being weird about it. Even for him."

"Come spend the summer with us," Len says. "Central City won't notice one more weird thing, trust me."

"...maybe," she says. Then frowns. "Actually, can I bring some friends?"

"Friends?"

"...therapist."

"By all means," Mick says. "Bring the therapist."

\--

"This is my girlfriend," Mick says. "Her name is Maze. She's great."

Maze waves.

"Nice to meet you," Cisco says, somewhat dubiously. The dubiously part is probably because he has no idea why Maze would be dating Mick.

To be fair, Mick is also not sure, but they've been bonding over burning things and rampant violence and sex, so when she suggested trolling Central City with a relationship, he was all for. 

He's not sure, but that may have been her oblique way of confirming that he's up to date. Either way: in. Definitely in. 

Barry draws Mick aside as Cisco takes her on a quick tour. "Hey, Mick, uh, does she know about the, y'know?"

Mick blinks. He does not know.

"You know! The thing! Me!"

Maze does not know you. That's why Mick brought her to meet you.

"Well, what about our mutual friends?"

We have mutual friends?

"The averider-Way."

The _what?_

"You know! Through time!"

Mick is totally lost.

"Shit, she doesn't know, does she? Take it from someone who knows; girls _hate_ it when you keep secrets from them." Barry pats him on the shoulder. "Don't worry, though; we'll do our best to let you tell her about it in your own time."

Mick rejoins Maze for the rest of the tour, puzzling over that bizarre conversation until -

"Oh," he says on the way back home. "Oh, wait - wait, no - that's not -"

"What?" Len asks from the passenger side. Maze is driving. Len is not driving. This is a rule. 

"They think Maze is a _civilian_ ," Mick says helplessly.

He can see Maze smile.

"Oh," she purrs. "Do they now?"

This is going to be a fun summer.


	6. coldwave NSA smut

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> for daughterofscotland, who wanted coldwave smut stress relief

Len’s laughing uncontrollably. It would be a problem, except Mick keeps kissing him, interrupting, and that works pretty damn well. 

“We did it,” Len says gleefully. “We did it!”

Mick’s shoulders bunch up and he lifts Len, slamming him into the wall. Len groans and wraps his legs around Mick’s waist, curling his hands in the top of Mick’s shirt to pull him in again, pressing their lips together – lips, and tongue, and wet – only to break away again, laughing.

“Fuck, Mick,” he says. “We _did_ it.”

“Yeah, Lenny,” Mick says, and his mouth’s muffled because it’s pressed up against Len’s neck, kissing and licking and the slightest pull of teeth. “We did it. You’re a goddamn genius.”

Yes, yes, Len is. Len planned that job from head to tail and it worked _exactly_ like he wanted. 

There’s no adrenaline rush like knowing that you’ve pulled one over on the cops and the store owners and everyone – like getting away with a theft of what is very nearly the entire inventory of a store. But that’s not even the best part, the _best_ part is how totally they fucked over the bastard that tried to sell them out to the Families.

He’s going to jail for a very, _very_ long time, unless he confesses the location of the loot – which he doesn’t know.

Yep. Len’s a genius.

Mick’s gotten Len’s belt loose and his hand, big and warm, slips into Len’s pants.

On second thought, Mick’s a genius, too.

Len bucks into Mick’s hands, groaning with pleasure as Mick strokes him. “Yeah,” he says. “Yeah, Mick – Mick, _fuck_ me –”

“You’re nuts,” Mick says. “This shit excuse for a safehouse has got no lube.” 

“ _Mick_!”

Mick laughs, low and dark and incredibly hot. He’s as hard as Len is; violence and adrenaline does it for him the way the sweet taste of success does it for Len. That’s how they ended up with this particular post-heist ritual, helping them both burn out their energy so that they don’t go do something stupid and get caught. 

“Don’t worry, Lenny,” he says. “I’ll take care of you.”

Len grumbles but pulls Mick in for a kiss, then pushes him back, stumbling to a standing position, and starts pulling off his own clothing. 

Mick pulls off his shirt, but he doesn’t bother doing more than undoing his pants, pulling himself out and stroking himself as he watches Len get naked, all but the undershirt he prefers to keep on at all times. He looks like a page out of a firefighter’s magazine, muscles and burns, pants hanging low on his hips, red suspenders hanging down on each side. 

Len has to swallow hard just looking at him. 

“I’m gonna put you up against the wall, I think,” Mick says, and Len’s licking his dry lips. “And I’m gonna fuck your thighs.”

“Jesus, Mick –”

“Shut up,” Mick growls. “Or do you want me to gag you?”

Len shuts up. Mick likes being able to make Len be quiet. 

Preferably with his cock, but it gets him hot as hell when Len obeys his orders. It’s a nice trade off from what they do on jobs. 

Sure enough, Mick’s eyes glitter when there’s nothing but silence. 

“You’d better keep quiet,” he says, and he steps forward, cock jutting out from his pants, and he turns Len around until his hands are braced on the wall, his legs pressed tight together, and _fuck_ , it’s nearly as good as getting fucked for real, Mick up close against his back, friction almost painful but their sweat enough to make it work. Mick grunting into Len’s ear, saying, “Good – look at you, all pretty for me – prettiest damn thing I’ve ever seen, and all mine – standing there and taking it, all good for me –”

Len keens a little because damnit it’s so good, it’s so good. He tries to grind back a bit.

“Hold still.”

Len _growls_ at that, because Mick has _got_ to be kidding him. 

“I’ll suck you off when I’m done, if you hold still.”

Len groans, but he does. Getting blown by Mick is not an opportunity to be passed up. 

Mick uses Len just the way he likes him, moving him where he wants him, rocking his hips just how he likes it, sucking marks into Len’s neck, into his shoulder, fingers digging into Len’s hips. 

Len’s biting his lips, hard, trying to keep quiet, trying to keep still.

“Yeah,” Mick says, “yeah, Lenny – just like that – just like –”

He grunts and comes, and Len feels the wetness between his thighs, dripping down. Mick huffs another hard breath or to, then pulls back. 

“You had _better_ be planning on getting me off,” Len growls. 

Mick laughs. “Yeah, yeah,” he says. “I’m good for it, you know that. Turn around and I’ll lick you clean first.”

Len spins so fast he nearly goes off balance.

Mick is grinning toothily at him as he oh-so-slowly goes down to his knees, then crawling forward. 

_Hell yeah_.

Len grins.

Best. Heist. Ever.


	7. Mick meets Frank Castle

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mick Rory (as Kronos) meets Frank Castle

"That's a lot of dead people."

"You're real observant, ain't ya?" the guy sneers.

Well, he tries. He's bleeding out pretty bad, but he's trying to crawl towards his pack.

Sarcastic city boy with the pain tolerance of a mule, snarking even as he bleeds out into the pavement.

Kronos sighs and walks over, kneeling beside the man and running his hand-held time manipulator over his injuries. It's an inferior version of the Pilgrim's manipulator, works too slow and too narrow to really be of any use to anyone, and that's why they binned it. Kronos had rescued it because slow or not, he can think of a few uses for something that reverses time in a localized spot. 

Like healing a bullet wound, for instance.

"Jesus fucking Christ!" the guy howls.

It's not a _pleasant_ sort of healing, but it'll do.

After the first burst of pain passes, the guy struggles to sit up, cursing up a storm of profanity and threats, until -

"Hey, I ain't bleeding."

"You're very observant, aren't you," Kronos says dryly.

"That doo-hickey of yours is a cure-all," the guy says, marveling at his closed up flesh. He's got plenty of scars underlying it.

"No, the other one is," Kronos says absently. "This one is portable, though."

He stands.

"Hold up, will you?" the guy says, climbing to his feet. "Who are you, anyway? And, heh, what Renfair are you heading to? Or from?"

Kronos blinks at him. Renfair? Renaissance fair, his brain informs him. A Renfair is -

_\- cooking the turkey legs until they're done right because he doesn't want to poison anyone, prodding at them with a stick, a leather doublet unlaced halfway down and hanging free - ahistorical for sure, but the lady in charge of costuming had taken one look at his chest and okayed it -_

Kronos shakes his head to clear it. "I'm not going to a Renfair."

"Then what's with the armor?"

"It's to protect me when people try to resist," Kronos says. 

The guy, who'd been smiling a little, vaguely friendly, stiffens. "Resist what, exactly?"

"Whatever my masters order," Kronos says. He shrugs at the guy's incredulous look. "It's that or the chair, and I ain't doing that again. Ever."

"The chair," the guy echoes. "Electric?"

"More like electroshock," Kronos tells him. He's not sure why. "Except you can feel your memories disappearing as they rip them out of your head."

"Torture," the guy says, nodding. "And you can't just go?"

"They'd go after me," Kronos says, rather than saying he wouldn't. Why is he even having this stupid conversation? "And then after everyone I cared about. Ever."

"Fuck that," the guy says, looking offended. 

Oh.

That's why.

Sarcastic killer with the pain tolerance of a mule and an accent with no class - 

Reminds him of Len.

Brings the Mick Rory of him too close to the surface.

Kronos shakes his head. He needs to go before anyone sees this moment of weakness.

"Want me to take 'em out for you?" the guy offers just as Kronos starts turning away.

Kronos turns back and stares. "You're nuts," he says.

"Yeah," guy says. He sniffs a bit, smirks. "Guess I am."

"You don't know what you're up against here," Kronos tells him. "You're outclassed."

"Been outclassed before."

"Not like this."

The guy shrugs. "I'll take my chances. These people sound like they need to be punished."

That has the sound of a mantra. Or a catchphrase. Still in progress, though.

"No," Kronos says slowly, bemused. "But thanks for offering."

The guy nods.

Kronos feels moved by that little piece of Mick Rory that lives inside of him.

"...you want a lift to where you're going next?"

"What the hell," the guy says. "Why not? But I'm bringing my guns. And my dog."

"Sure," Kronos says. "Why not?"

\---------------------------------------------

"You know, when you said lift, I was thinking of a car," the guy, still nameless, says. "Maybe a van. Or a truck. I could see you with a truck."

"I've never owned a truck."

"Still, gotta say," the guy says. "Wasn't really seeing _spaceship_."

Kronos looks at his ship. "It should be visible now that it's uncloaked," he says, bemused.

The guy barks a laugh. The dog barks happily in agreement.

"What the hell," he says again. "Man, Red'll never believe this." 

"You know the speedster?" Kronos asks, concerned.

"Speedster? I don't know no speedster, unless you mean a Land Rover or a motorbike -"

"Then - you said - Red?"

"Y'know. The Daredevil?"

"Oh," Kronos says. "In New York."

"You're not from New York," the guy says, very definitively. 

"Central City. Well, Keystone originally. Gem Cities."

"Don't they have a speedster there?"

"They do. He wears all red, too."

The guy nods, understanding.

"So where am I dropping you off?" Kronos asks. 

"I was gonna say I'd ride with you in any direction you've got," the guy says. "But clearly I'm going to have to be more specific." 

Kronos nods.

"How far can this go?"

"Anywhere I need it to, within reason."

"Huh. Afghanistan within reason for you?"

"Sure."

"What about an army base?"

"No problem. I can drop you off on the roof."

The guy looks wistful. "Nah," he says. "No exit route."

Kronos check his messages. "I have a job I need to do," he says. "But if you don't mind waiting until that's done, I can drop you off and pick you up, then put you somewhere else."

"I can wait," the guy assures him, crookedly smiling. "Don't you worry."

Kronos revs up the ship. "Okay," he says. "Funny, you mentioning Afghanistan. Do you know anything about the First Gulf War?"

"Sure, plenty. Why?"

"We're going there."

"We're -"

"Strap in," Kronos warns him, and makes the jump.

\---------------------------------------------------------------------------

"Tihs," the guy says. "Siht si tihs. Tahw eht kcuf?"

"Time travel side effects," Kronos tells him. "Close your eyes, count to ten, then open 'em."

Guy does.

And then -

"You can travel in _time_?!"

"Yeah," Kronos says. "So?"

The guy's throat works. "Time travel," he says. His eyes are distant. "You - can you go see people? Specific people?"

Kronos shrugs. "Not everyone," he says, think of - _Len_ \- people he's not allowed to see.

"Oh. Okay. Uh. Maybe - could we -"

"After the job," Kronos tells him. 

The guy nods jerkily and goes quiet.

Kronos knows that kind of quiet. 

"My family burned in a fire," he says abruptly. 

"Bullets," the guy says hollowly. "All of 'em. My little girl."

_\- Len smiling at the ice rink, pointing out Lisa - my little sister, he says proudly -_

Kronos shakes his head. It pains his head to think of Len - he's not supposed to feel good things about Len, only anger and hate - 

"Hey," the guy's standing in front of him all of a sudden. "Hey, hey. It's okay."

Kronos blinks and shakes his head. "What's okay?" he says harshly.

"Your nose started bleeding. You think something your bosses don't want you thinking?" the guy's voice is very calm, very even.

Kronos nods slowly. "My -" _Best friend. Lover. Husband._ "He -" _Betrayer._ "I -"

"It's okay. You don't have to tell me."

"I'm supposed to hurt him," Kronos says. His lips are numb and buzzing. "He hurt me, so I'm supposed to hurt him. I'm not enough yet, though. They put me back in the chair because I don't hate him enough -"

"I don't think I like your bosses," the guy says. 

"Yeah," Kronos says, swallowing a few times. "Sometimes I don't like 'em either. Not supposed to say that, but it's true."

The guy nods solemnly. "Something to think about," he says vaguely. "What's your job, anyway?"

"Ginny?" Kronos asks.

Ginny makes a whole show of unfurling her hologram every time he calls upon her. Kronos appreciates it: he hates surprises, how the Gideons of other ships just speak out of nowhere. 

The guy looks pretty impressed, too.

"A straightforward retrieval mission," she announces. "A time pirate removed an important shipment from the timeline, but perished in the process. The shipment needs to be returned to its track. There is no need for you to eliminate the individual this time."

"They make you kill people for them," the guy observes.

"Sometimes," Kronos grunts and gets up.

"You need help?"

Kronos considers it for a moment. "You don't need to get caught in the Time Masters' shit," he says eventually. "Stay here. I'll be back soon."

"Okay," the guy says. 

"You can ask Ginny if you have any questions," Kronos adds. The guy reminds him of Len. If he remembers Len correctly - "Ginny, answer anything he wants, then erase the questions."

The guy smiles. It's surprisingly sweet.

And just a little wicked.

"I like you," the guy says.

Kronos grunts and goes to work.

\-------------------------------------------------------------------------

He comes back dirty and tired and hating sand, but history is back on track.

The guy looks disturbed.

"What?" Kronos asks.

"Asked about the Time Masters," the guy says shortly.

Kronos nods. "Out of your league," he reiterates. 

"Yeah," the guy says, but he sounds disgruntled. "I guess. For now."

Kronos has to try not to smile.

This guy would get along great with Len. Never met a challenge he didn't want to throw himself at.

"Yeah," he says. "Who'd you want to see?"

The guy goes pale.

"It's okay," Kronos says. 

"It's not okay," the guy whispers. "It'll never be okay."

"Tell me," Kronos says.

The guy tells his story, short bursts and stuttering and choked up. It's an awful story, too. Painful and pointless. Dead wife, dead daughter, dead son, and for no reason.

"I said no," the guy says dully, his eyes glinting until he only seems half-present. "I said I'd read it to her tomorrow. Her favorite story. A couple of pages, and I couldn't be bothered -"

"Did you go to sleep?" Kronos asks.

The guy blinks out of his daze, frowning. "What?"

"That night. You go to sleep?"

"Yeah," the guy says, puzzled. "Why?"

Kronos nods. "We can't change the timeline," he says. 

"Yeah," the guy says, swallowing. "Ginny explained. It's important not to mess it up or the Time Masters come for you." There's a spark in his eyes that Kronos doesn't trust. It's too much like Len.

"They'd put me in the chair for even thinking of helping you," Kronos says.

The guy deflates a bit. He really is just like Lenny - he'd fight anybody, sure, but he wouldn't actually cause someone else's torture just for the chance. If he thought he could kill them, maybe, but not for the chance. "Yeah. There is that."

"But that doesn't mean we can't fix the little things," Kronos says.

The guy frowns at him.

"What do you mean?"

"Ginny can make a gas to help you sleep," Kronos says. "Past you, I mean. And your wife. Then you - current you - can go wake up your kid, later that night. Read her the story. Kid that age won't question Daddy coming back around. But you can't interact with your past self at all, not without a timequake, so it'd be a quick in and out. You want that?"

The guy swallows like he can't breathe, gulping air like he's drowning, fist clenched on his chest and rocking back and forth in agony entirely internal. "Yeah," he whispered. "Yeah. Shit. Yeah, I - shit. If that's an option - shit. Yeah. I want it."

"You've got to keep yourself together, though," Kronos says. "You can say you love her and all that, but no hints about not going to no carousel, or I'll know." Kronos taps his message screen. "You'll be my next target."

The guy nods tightly.

"And you're good," Kronos says, thinking of the giant pile of dead bodies. "You're good, but even if you beat me, even if you beat the next guy that comes, you can't beat the Time Masters. They'll attack you in the worst ways - they'll drown you as a nine year old that time you went swimming, where you can't stop them; they'll shoot your wife in the head three days before you met her; they'll take _everything_ that means something away from your life before you ever have it."

The guy nods. His eyes are still bright. "They're gonna get what's coming their way one day," he says.

Kronos shrugs. It’s always possible. "Not today. You wanna do it?"

"Hell yeah. Won't this get you in trouble?"

"This course of action fits the technical definition of time pirate," Ginny says cheerfully. "Might I advise: don't get caught?"

Kronos snorts and takes off.

They land in a park not far from the guy's house. The guy's shaking like a leaf in a way he hadn't been at anything at all, up until now; this one act terrifying him a lot more than anything else.

Kronos straps a zapper around his wrist. "If you forget to come back," he tells him, and goes around himself to the master bedroom with the sleepytime gas. He takes extra precautions to keep it dead quiet - guy like that isn't someone to be messed with, clearly, and Kronos isn't going to underestimate him even before he started his vendetta. 

It works, though, and Kronos returns to the rendezvous point and waits.

And waits.

And _waits_.

A second before he starts reaching for the remote for the zapper, the guy staggers out of the house. He looks blind, or drunk, or possibly on the edge of some emotional breakdown.

Kronos goes over and gently takes his arm, leading him back to Ginny.

"Gin," he says, since the guy's still dissociating. "Think you can get a read on the past self from here?"

"Of course I can," Ginny says haughtily. She's a bitch, but that's what Kronos likes about her. "And it's Ginny. I'm not an alcoholic liqueur best served with tonic."

"Think we can..?"

"Certainly. There's only one injury that is potentially problematic to repair - a shot to the head. Very well publicized - indeed, the skull on his armor is a visualization of an x-ray of that injury. It has gained notoriety and thus relevance to the timeline, and if anyone discovered the absence -"

"Fair enough," Kronos says. "If he consents, fix all the underlying but the head. He might want to keep some of the scars."

"Boys and their scars," Ginny sniffs. "In your absence, I have taken the liberty of repairing the guns, grenades, and other assorted weaponry."

"You're the best, Gin."

"If you rename the ship 'Tonic', sir, I will dump you out of an airlock."

Kronos smirks. 

It takes another ten or twenty minutes or so, but the guy eventually moves out of sheer shock and goes into the crying part of shock recovery. Kronos leaves him be; some things are private. 

It's at least an hour later that he feels the touch on his arm.

"Thank you," the guy rasps, low and deep and voice wet as his eyes. "Thank you for giving this to me."

Kronos shrugs. He doesn't know how to explain that it wasn't for _him_ , not _really_ , but for that precious, loved-yet-hated figure that lives in his memories. Another sarcastic shit with an absurd tolerance for pain and an itchy trigger finger, and a little girl who ruled his heart. 

"She was so happy," the guy says. "She was - shit. It's been years for me, and so many deaths in between, but every day I'd think about her. Started to think maybe the shrinks were right and I was idealizing a bit. But no. She's just as goddamn perfect as I remembered her. She's - she's everything." His hands, shaking, abruptly steady. "And they took her from me."

"I'll take you to the base you wanted," Kronos says. "But I'd recommend you let Ginny take a peek at you."

"Oh?"

"She scanned your younger self. She can repair underlying issues - muscle tears, friction, aging. Won't impact your instincts anyway, and you can keep the scars that are important, but a bit of extra flexibility and stamina can't hurt."

The guy raises his hand to his head.

"Can't fix that," Kronos says apologetically. "Gin says it's too big a change. Might be noticed. The rest is all under the skin and you didn't get that many scans of your body, so we can probably sneak away at least one bone break as having healed up perfect."

The guy nods. "You trust her?"

"Yeah."

He goes.

Kronos drops him off by the base and waits, playing with the guy's dog as he does. It's a good dog. 

"It's done," the guy says from behind him. Alarms are blaring, the guy has a bag in his hands, and he's painted like one of the Queen of Hearts' roses, except it's starting to brown already. "We shouldn't stick around."

"Anti-aircraft missiles would be a problem, even for us," Ginny says.

Kronos nods and goes to the pilot seat. They take off right before a missile hits.

"They really don't like you," Kronos observes.

"No shit," the guy says. "Good dog, isn't she?"

"Very good. My partner always preferred cats, y'know. Probably because he was one, big old asshole cat -"

Kronos stops as a wave of pain overcomes him, his skull firing off a thousand waves of hatred and pain to remind him why he never talks about Lenny.

"Hey, hey," the guy says, holding onto Kronos' arms. "I got you. This the guy you're supposed to hurt?"

Kronos nods mutely.

"What's his name?" the guy asks. 

Lenny.

Len.

Leonard.

Beloved. Husband. _Partner_.

Kronos' mouth moves futilely, unable to squeeze out a word. 

"Leonard Snart," Ginny says for him. "Of Central City. A historical contemporary of yours."

"Okay," the guy says. "I'll keep that in mind."

He pats Kronos on the back as Kronos straightens up. "You're a good guy, you know? You haven't even asked for anything from me."

"You remind me," Kronos croaks. "Of -" He trails off.

"Even the killing bit?"

Kronos shook his head. "Never liked killing," he says. "Do it if he felt he had to, if people were hurting or threatening to hurt us, but the second anyone gave him an excuse to stop, he did. Dad made him do it. Was a cop, y'know. Dirty."

"I hate dirty cops," the guy says contemplatively. "I get you."

Kronos shakes his head free of cobwebs. "I should get you back before the Time Masters notice I've made a detour."

"You do that," the guy says, going to the other seat and strapping himself and his dog in. "And hey - best of luck getting out from under them."

Kronos doesn't think that's a possibility, but he appreciates the thought.

They land halfway across the country from where Kronos picked the guy up. "Been about four hours, local time," Kronos tells him. "Bit too fast for you to get here, so if you want to be safe, I'd wait another few hours before heading out again."

"Get some sleep and shit," the guy says. "Gotcha. Thanks."

Kronos opens the door for him and hands him his ridiculous bag of guns. Ginny pipes up to inform him of some additions she's made to them. 

Guy's shoulders look like a burden's been taken off of them. Kronos isn't sure if it's the removal of the chronic pain or having seen his daughter again that did it.

(He wishes he could make Len sit in the chair and take a round of Ginny's healing, but he'll never make anyone, no matter how hated-beloved-hated he is, sit bound in a chair every again.)

The guy stops just at the threshold. "Hey," he says. "Just occurs to me. We never really got around to introducing ourselves."

Kronos shrugs. "Names are the first thing they take."

"Not mine," the guy says. "I'm Frank. Frank Castle. And you?"

Kronos opens his mouth to give his designation.

"I used to be called Mick Rory," he finds himself saying.

The guy nods. "I hope," he says seriously, "that the next time we meet, you're calling yourself that again."

And then he goes.

"You're wanted back at the Vanishing Point, Kronos," Ginny says apologetically.

"Yeah," Kronos says, shaking his head and closing the door. Enough nonsense - time to go back to work. "Yeah, let's blow this joint."

For one idle moment, he wonders if there’s any chance of him seeing Frank again.

Nah. 

What’s the likelihood of that?


	8. Len and Mick meet Wonder Woman

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> prompt: pls imagine wondercoldwave and their strange courting

It was Lisa’s fault.

Well, okay, that’s a lie. Lisa wasn’t even _there_. 

But she _had_ finally graduated high school, turned eighteen and gone off to college with a handful of scholarships and all the money Len and Mick had stolen for her in a giant fuck-up of a job, which had encouraged them both to head for more forgiving climes for a while. They’d gone to the Caribbean, first, but then Len had played a few too many card games with some Family guys down there and now he might or might not own an island but he certainly wouldn’t last long if he stayed there.

So they go to Europe. 

Nice, proper European tour. Why not? 

Because Leonard fucking Snart, that’s why not. 

“It’s the _Louvre_ ,” that’s what he said. “We have to!”

“We won’t be able to fence anything we get,” Mick pointed out.

“But it’s the _Louvre_!”

And so they’d broken in there. Mostly just for kicks.

Then Len got distracted by some pottery. _Mid-heist_. This never happened back at Central.

“Look at it,” he enthuses. “Do you even know how old this is? Look at the characteristic neck – and the _design_ – ugh, why isn’t this out on display? Don’t they realize how awesome it is?”

Mick personally thought all pottery looked the same, but he was currently flipping through some watercolor sketches and making happy sounds, so whatever, to each his own. 

“Look at the _glazing_ on this one –”

Mick only looks up when Len cuts off mid-sentence, which was most unlike him. 

He’s blinking owlishly at a statute.

No, wait. 

That’s not a statute, that’s a _woman_. A statuesque, gorgeous woman, in glasses and a sensible business suit.

With her hands on her hips.

“300,” Len says blankly. “Crane or heavy-backed floor.”

“I beg your pardon?” the woman says. She has a faint accent – something Mediterranean.

“He’s trying to figure out how he would steal you,” Mick translates, since Len’s grip on speech has apparently failed. He’s accustomed to the bizarreness of the Snart mentality; most people are not. “Assuming you were made of marble.”

“Clay would be easier,” Len says, still sounding vaguely dazed. “You’ve got a finer neck than this vase, and that’s saying something.”

The woman abruptly grins, and it’s frankly stunning even to Mick, who takes a good while to warm up to anybody. “You appreciate art,” she says approvingly. “Why do you not come during the day?”

“It’s the _Louvre_ ,” Len says, vaguely scandalized. “We had to _try_ to break in.”

“You succeeded,” she says. “Perhaps you will be so kind as to show me the weakness in our security system you exploited; not every thief will be as respectful as you.”

Len clutches the vase he’s holding to his chest, holding it with the delicacy you would expect from a man holding a baby. “That would be awful,” he says, and he means it, too, the moron. He very gently puts it down. “Yeah, we’ll show you.”

Mick makes a little whining sound.

“…after Mick finishes going through the watercolors,” Len amends.

“They are very fine watercolors,” the woman says. “My name is Diana Prince; I am curator here.”

“Leonard Snart,” Len says. He nods at Mick. “Mick Rory.”

“Nice to meet you,” Mick says politely. “Why ain’t there an exhibit of these? They’re amazing.”

“We’re planning one,” Diana says. “But it has been difficult to convince the museum director…”

“Does he have a name?” Mick inquires very seriously. “Or, better, an address?”

She hides a smile. “You should not threaten people over artwork, Mick.”

“I’m not gonna _do_ anything,” he grumbles. “Just a bit of scaring. It’d be good for him.”

“You are welcome to finish perusing the watercolors,” she says. “Leonard – may I call you Leonard?”

“Sure,” Len says. “I mean, I usually go by Len, but, uh, Leonard sounds just fine when you say it.”

She smiles. “Leonard, then. It suits you. Perhaps you could show me the weakness in the security while your friend here finishes up?”

Len nods like a bobble-head doll and she takes his arm and puts it in hers and then they go off.

Mick shakes his head, amused, and dives back into his watercolors. 

Diana – and she insists on it being ‘Diana’, not Miss Prince or anything else – is kind enough not to call the police, either. 

Len offers her a tour of the local art galleries, after-hours. He’s got a hell of a crush on her already.

He always did like women who looked like they could break him over their knee. 

“I couldn’t,” Diana says, but she’s smiling.

“Why not?” Len asks.

“Well,” she says, and then stops, considering.

“You’ve got to have fun sometimes,” Mick tells her, because he’s the best partner ever. “Or else you’ll forget why you do the rest of it.”

“Oh, why not indeed,” she says. “Very well; let us go. I am most intrigued by your unorthodox method of getting around.”

They spend three weeks in Paris, all told. Len teaches her pickpocketing and lockpicking; Mick tells her stories he’d thought he’d forgotten, about being born on a farm so far away from the water he didn’t even know what it looked like until the first time he’d gotten on a plane; she talks of art history and of kindnesses, great and small. 

She confides in them that she was raised on an island with a – and here she smiled – unorthodox view of property. 

“Now there’s a place I’d like to visit,” Len enthuses.

“Simply because there are no laws against theft?” she laughs.

“That’s the best sort of place! You could try out all sorts of tricks, teach yourself to be better and better, and people wouldn’t throw it in your face when you give something back,” he says. 

“Tell me more about how people eat,” Mick requests. He’s really into fresh foods and community gardening back at in Keystone, but he’s run up into a wall of people not believing they can work, or thinking the food will be stolen the second it grows. He doesn’t know how to explain to them that that’s the point.

Diana’s nice, and funny, and smart.

She also, in one memorable instance, throws a truck at someone’s head.

It doesn’t start that way, of course; Diana shows up right when Mick is trying to find his misplaced gun and – upon seeing his panic – asks what the issue is.

“Kids,” Mick says. “Len – the local mafia outlet – he found out – they trade in kids, and that’s kind of a trigger issue for Len so he just _jumped_ in –”

“He has gone to rescue them?”

“Kids,” Mick growls. “If it was anything else, he’d have planned it out first, but not when it comes to kids. I can’t blame him, not really, but I can’t even _find my gun_ -”

“You will not need it,” she says, and it’s almost like she adds an extra foot of height when she straightens her back. 

Mick gets his gun anyway. “He’s my partner,” he tells her, because he will be damned to hell before he’s intimidated out of his rightful place at Len’s side, whether into heaven or into hell. “You can help me kick his ass when we find him.”

She blinks, then smiles. She’s still a little too tall, a little too other-worldly, but the smile helps make her a little more human. “Yes,” she says. “After we rescue him, of course.”

“Can’t kick his ass without that,” Mick replies, tranquilly. 

“You are a good partner, Mick Rory,” she says. “Leonard is lucky to have you.”

“And me, him,” Mick says, more honestly than he meant to be. “He saved my life.”

“He told me you saved his.”

“He saves mine every day,” Mick tells her, because Diana has a way of looking at you with her old eyes that makes you tell the truth even if you don’t want to. “Just by being who he is. Have some pity on the man and let him down easy when you do, will you?”

Diana arches her eyebrows and presses her lips together thoughtfully. 

“Lead the way,” is all she says.

They find Len, who’s having it out with a bunch of assholes, a child clutching at his hip, an even smaller child held under one elbow, gun out in the other. “Don’t make a fucking move,” he’s saying, but there’s more of them than of him and they’re inching closer.

“I’d listen to the man,” Mick says, and Len’s eyes flicker to him, betraying relief.

The little movement is what the local Family assholes were waiting for, guns at ready, and they lunge forward.

So does Diana. 

Diana wins.

More people run in.

It would take far too much time to explain the whole sequence of events – Mick honestly doesn’t remember much of it, torn between his surprise at Diana’s surprising strength and protecting Len, and erring to focus on the latter – but it concludes with Diana thrown a truck at the Family guys and their lines breaking and fleeing. 

“That was _amazing_ ,” Len says, beaming at Diana. “Now, here, hold Lucille while I convince Isabelle to let me go get the others.”

It’s clear to Mick that Diana anticipated many possible reactions to her actions, including how impressed and starry-eyed Len is, but having a small child shoved into her arms wasn’t one of them. 

“ _Petit Izzy_ ,” Len croons, kneeling down. “ _Tu parles Anglais_?”

“ _Non! N’y va pas!_ ”

Diana kneels and says something in French.

Isabelle just grabs onto Len tighter. 

Mick walks over and says, “Okay, brat. Hop on.” He holds out his arms.

Isabelle looks at Len, who nods.

She immediately detaches from Len and flings herself into Mick’s arms. 

Mick speaks exactly zero words of French, but he’s got a way with kids. 

“I’ll get the others,” Len says. “We’ll take them back home so they can rest. Then we can figure out what to do with them.”

“The police?” Diana asks.

“Probably corrupt,” Len says grimly. 

“He always thinks police are corrupt,” Mick interjects. 

“Because they usually _are_. Who the hell operates a child smuggling ring this close to a police station without someone looking the wrong way?”

“I will investigate,” Diana says. “In the meantime, I have connections with several good organizations that will help locate their parents, if possible.”

“And monitor them,” Mick says firmly as Len strides off to find the other children he referenced. “I was in the system for a bit, and there’s risk involved.” He hesitates and glances in the direction Len went. He doesn’t want to mention unpleasant things, but if Diana will be placing the kids… “Len’s got some things to say about blood relatives not being too trustworthy either, if you want to hear it.” 

Diana nods, her expression solemn. “They will be guarded. I will confirm it myself.”

“This way,” Len sings out cheerfully, leading the children out of the dark like some sort of Pied Piper. He has a way with kids, too. “Follow me, _mon lupins_. Hop, hop.”

“ _Lapins_ ,” the older children, the ones with a big of English, giggle. “Not _lupins_!”

“What’s the difference?” Len asks innocently.

They take the children to Diana’s friend.

The children are all quite fond of Diana, who is _also_ good with children, especially once little Isabella tells the others about the truck; Diana is apparently called L’Princesse Amazone, or ‘Wonder Woman’, in Paris for her little way of solving issues. They go happily.

Len looks after them wistfully for a few minutes before turning to Diana. “That,” he tells her solemnly, “was _wonderful_.”

“That,” Mick grunts, “was _awful_.”

Diana laughs.

They leave shortly thereafter, albeit regretfully. Len wants to avoid any Family recognizing him and Diana is occupied with the placement of the children; there’s really no reason to stay.

Still, it’s hard to tear themselves away. Not just Len, but Mick, too. He’s grown more accustomed to her than he’d have thought. 

“You should come visit us in Central,” Len tells her before they go.

“Perhaps I will,” she says with a smile.

Impulsively, Mick steps forward and presses his lips to her cheek. Len blinks in surprise, but when Diana doesn’t object, he steps forward and does the same to her other cheek.

And then they’re off. 

Even though Len made the offer, no one is more surprised than he is when a year later, back in Central, the Central City Museum announces a partnership with the Louvre in which a curator will be swapped for three months every year. 

Len and Mick are there on opening day.

Diana smiles.

“Perhaps you will show me around here, too,” she says, holding out her hands.

“Absolutely,” Len says.

Mick nods.

“And this time,” she continues, her smile widening, “I will not let you two escape with only a kiss good-bye.”

Len and Mick exchange blinks.

“Uh, we can do that,” Len says.

Mick nods furiously. 

"I brought the rope," she adds innocently.

"We can _definitely_ do that," Mick enthuses. 

“Oh, and we got you a present,” Len says.

“It was in a museum,” Mick adds. “Sort of.”

“Was it obtained illicitly?” Diana asks with a knowing smile.

“No more illicitly than the museum originally got it?” Len tries.

Diana laughs.

(Fifteen years later, Diana looks down at the Flash, pinned under her boot. “You will not interrupt our dates,” she says sternly. 

“I will not interrupt your dates!” he squeaks. “Also, wow! You’re real! And…dating my villains?”

“We were dating first,” she says. “I will discuss their life choices with them another time.”

“…can I have your autograph in the meantime?”)


End file.
